Lone Runners
by NovaTek
Summary: A team of veteran Lone Star homicide detectives find their world turned upside down when the murder of one of their own becomes the subject of their investigation. To turn their world right side up, they must traverse the shadows, except of course... nothing is as it seems.


It's another damp, chill winter night in Seattle, the rain pelting the roof like automatic gun fire, the thunder clapping like Odin himself were set to return to the world. You and your team have finished yet another shift, setting things right, catching killers. Thirteen years of this, where the frag has time gone? Who cares, it's Friday and drinks are imminent.

A voice bellows from an office up the hall, snapping you out of your reverie. "Alpha team, my office ASAP." The command seemed desperate, lined with a hint of fear in his voice, the Sarge? Slot that, he's never shown an ounce of fear in the decade he's been in charge of your department.

One by one, the team crams into the Sergeants office; a twenty by twenty windowless box with an ill fitted desk, mountains of files and an antique coffee maker off to the side, the worn name badge on the desk reads "Sgt. McGinn".

"Got another homicide, I need you to look at this one tonight." McGinn was on edge, unusual for the mountain of a Troll seated across from you, normally so easy going. You and your teammates begin to mumble with discontent, all of you in varying stages of undress from official uniform.

"You're going to want to, trust me" he says, scrawling an address on a piece of paper handing it to you. Taking a moment to make sense of the illegible hand writing on the paper, a pang of fear runs through you, and your eyes widen in realization.

Looking up, confusion in your eyes, McGinn confirms it with a solemn nod and speaks softly for the benefit of everyone else. "It's Tochinsky, no details yet but it doesn't look good."

The room suddenly feels much heavier, like taking a medicine ball to the gut, and the mood sinks. All of you graduated from the academy together, McGinn, Tochinsky, and your team, Narin, Rottleham and Gorbichov.

You and your team ended up in the field, showing remarkable efficacy for tracking down the perpetrators of violent crimes, considering the ridiculously high unsolved murder rate in this city. After graduation McGinn and Tochinsky sped through the ranks, McGinn landing in the Sergeants chair after just 3 years in the field, while Tochinsky rocketed into upper management almost immediately, Dunkelzahn's favor indeed.

You look at your teammates, steely determination in their faces. Grimly, yet with a sense of unease; the team reassembles its gear, gets back into uniform and heads out into the rain en route to the suburbs.

Twenty minutes later, you step out from the Lone Star tactical van, into the cool night air. Torrential downpour has slowed to a steady mist, and fog curls around your feet. You look around, surveying the scene, taking everything in. Red and blue reflect off the pools of rain water and the slick pavement, the hurried movements of Lone Star personnel cast silhouettes, dancing across a morbid backdrop.

Two rookie patrolmen step aside as you cross the police barrier, stepping into the house. Everything is nicely appointed, fitting of someone with a nice, comfortable corporate salary. Pictures of the family adorn the hallway walls; the wife was obviously the decorator, decent taste too.

Walking around the corner from the entrance way into the family room, you stop dead in your tracks. Tochinsky is on the couch with what appears to be a shotgun wound at close range to the face, leaving him almost unrecognizable, if not for the unmistakable stature of the man, a rather formidable Orc. A glass tumbler rests on the floor, fallen from his limp hand, alcohol staining the cream colored carpet. The air is heavy; the smell of death is potent.

Your eyes move on from Tochinsky and across the room to Tochinsky's wife, Ariel slumped on the floor. Her lithe Elven body is riddled with automatic gun fire and a pool of dry, dark blood stains the carpet. This wasn't recent; Tochinsky and his wife have been here for at least a few days.

Suddenly, Rottleham calls out "Hey, where's the kid?" Julia, now orphaned was Carl and Ariel's 12 year old daughter. A Lone Star badge documenting the scene looks up, "No sign of her, we're looking into it now but no solid leads."

Taking charge of the scene you speak. "Okay people, we're going to find the drekheads who did this, we're going to get justice for Carl and Ariel. Hargrave, give me a status report ASAP." The badge who informed you about Julia approaches and hands you his datapad.

"All of the forensic information is here, along with some annotations. CCTV cameras spotted an armored vehicle shortly after the approximate time of death in the vicinity, heading out of the 'burbs at a high rate of speed."

"Who called this in?"

"Neighbour, came over to return some borrowed equipment, found the door partially open. Walked in and saw what you see here, emptied his stomach just over there." Hargrave points back toward the hall. "He's being escorted back to the precinct for an official statement." You dismiss him, thumbing the datapad thoughtfully, looking over at Tochinsky, drek.

With all of the crime scene evidence gathered up and the forensics performed, the coroner bags and tags the bodies, moving them out on stretchers en route to the morgue. The rest of the Lone Star badges finish up, leaving you and your team alone in the house.

For a moment, everyone stands still, somber and silent. The house creaks as a draft moves its way through the open front door, this is an old house, must be sixty or seventy years old, wood framing. It has character, unlike the recent concrete slabs coated in weather resistant material; it feels more like a home than a place to crash, well except for the bloodstains on the floor.

Narin moves swiftly across the room to inspect the wall safe, unknown to civilians, yet an unwritten standard operating procedure for anyone in law enforcement. She carefully removes the painting covering it, setting it aside. Pausing for a moment, she grabs some equipment and begins cracking the safe, within moments Narin lets out a satisfied acknowledgement, and the wall safe swings open.

Inside the safe are the usual suspects: passports and birth certificates, but also a heavy warhawk pistol, a credstick with ¥20,000 Nuyen and a password protected datapad. Narin takes the datapad and sets to the task of cracking the password, Gorbichov takes the rest of the evidence, bagging it and entering it into inventory.

Turning around, you see Rottleham staring at you, in an almost absent minded fashion before snapping back to reality. "There's a message on the trid phone." He says dismissively, motioning with his head beside him. Walking over to the trid phone, you quickly navigate through the sub menus.

Gathering around the trid display, the team waits in anticipation as you retrieve the message. Moments later, the screen remains blackened, but someone speaks slowly and methodically, their voice heavily modulated.

"19:00, January 22nd, Club Penumbra. Ask for Corbin, and come alone." The call ends, Narin says "Hey Rizoli, isn't today the 22nd?"

Your head nods in confirmation, looking at your watch; the time is 17:00. "Okay, let's clear out and get ready. We have a meeting to attend. Oh, and Gorbichov, we're going to need that credstick."

"Why's that 'cap?" Gobichov inquired, "Because," you reply, "Corbin is a fixer".


End file.
